


Let the Compass Keep Spinning

by busaikko



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Ascension, Community: sga_kinkmeme, Dildos, Other, Religious Themes & References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 23:57:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busaikko/pseuds/busaikko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: John/any, sex toys, Someone directs John while he rides a metal dildo that's been soldered to the floor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Compass Keep Spinning

"You're not asking me anything, and I'm not telling, I'm just _saying_ that this particular... thing, it won't be a hardship for me." John shrugs and takes off his tac vest, handing it to Teyla. He hands his weapons, overt and covert, to Ronon. "Just, you know, keep an eye out while I'm. . . not here."

"It's probably junk," Rodney argues, as if he hadn't been moaning in pleasure at the idea of getting into the temple room that the database linked to ZPM development. "I can't ask you—"

"No problem," John says, and gives Rodney a bright smile. He's stripped down to his boxer briefs, and feels a little manic with embarrassment. "See you on the other side."

He follows the head acolyte through the door to the garden of purification. The door is shut behind them. He's glad of that. He has to be completely naked here, so that he can wash with buckets full of the water of purity, from the icy-cold well of purity. By the time he's grimly scrubbing his toes pure, he's shivering so hard his teeth sound like castanets. Apparently, the truly pure don't need towels.

The idea of the main part of the ritual still freaks him out. The temple demands the sacrifice of virginity, male or female; it's a symbolic marriage to the local idea of the holy power. To become liaison on behalf of Atlantis, John's agreed to sacrifice his ass-virginity—of which he has none, but it's not like anyone can tell.

The priest in charge of explaining things had mentioned a sacred virginity-taking rod, which John interpreted as _dildo_ , but as they move from the garden to an inner chamber, John first finds himself being ritually deprived of his senses. The acolyte ties red cloth around his wrists with some words about touch, and then gags and blindfolds him. John concentrates on breathing steadily and tells himself that if anyone tries to stuff anything in his ears, he's walking out, naked or not.

"Walk straight," he's told, and then after seven uncertain, shuffling steps over the dirt floor, "Stop." He's told to turn to the left and bow, and then bow to the right, and then go to his knees and crawl forward. "The ceiling is low," the acolyte says in apology. "You're taller than most of my people." And then, "Stop there. There's a stone, you'll need to put your knees one on each side."

The stone is rough but worn rounded, and it's big enough that John's knees are spread pretty fucking wide. At least shoulder width.

"Go forward a bit and, ah." The acolyte sounds embarrassed. "You'll probably need to raise up a bit."

John does not think that dildo in the dark will ever catch on as a party game. He doesn't think this is going in the official mission report, either. He shuffles forward very, very carefully, but still bumps his dick into the dildo, which sticks up like it's bolted into the stone. It's metal, and cold, and wet with something that he hopes isn't the blood of all the virgins before him. He manages to grope the thing with a couple of fingers. He's pretty sure it's just oil. Maybe lard. His life sucks sometimes.

The acolyte tells John that there are nine prayers to the nine directions, and that John has to accept each one into his body to be fully wed to the greater power. "This is the first prayer," the acolyte adds helpfully, and then starts a chant. John might understand one word out of twenty if he really concentrated, but he's busy trying to line the head of the dido up with his ass and get it in. It feels like a physical challenge and not at all like sex, until he pushes down and makes his body open up. Then it's like a tsunami of sex, the thing sliding into him like a knife, slick and cold, forcing him open. John's dizzy there in the darkness; the ground beneath him feels like it's falling away as he rides the disembodied cock that's at the center of his fucking universe.

He's grateful for the gag; otherwise he'd be begging someone to get him the hell out of there. As much as he feels torn apart, he can't stop himself from sinking down to take as much of the metal shaft as he can. He almost doesn't recognise the warning pain when it's in as deep as possible, but he does notice when the chanting stops.

"You have to kneel up so it goes all the way out before I do the second one," the acolyte says. "I'll wait."

John jerks himself up on his knees, like snapping suddenly awake from a dream. The metal sliding smoothly free of his body sets of a chain reaction of sensation and desire that makes him shake from his toes to his head, eyes snapping open behind the blindfold as he's left empty.

He hangs like that, wanting and hating the emptiness and waiting, and when the second chant starts he welcomes the cold violation as though it's something he has a hunger for.

Which he kind of does. His dick is hard, but he hadn't asked whether it was okay to come. He assumes he shouldn't, and he doesn't want to get off on this. If he doesn't come, it will be easier, afterwards, to forget wanting to beg and wanting to come and wanting to fuck himself on this damn cold dildo for the rest of his natural life.

He tells himself he needs to get laid more often.

He gets through the first seven prayers just fine, even though each prayer gets a little longer. But when he pushes down against the dildo for the eighth time, his ass feeling bruised but fucked wide open and unable to resist intrusion, there's a sudden weird floating sensation that starts behind his belly button and grows. John's gliding on the buzz of the chant and the lightness inside, and he's in love with absolutely everything. The dirt scouring his knees, the pain and the pleasure in his ass, his shaking muscles, all of that turns inside out and folds down to almost nothing. John's eyes are open and his ass is full and he can feel the whole planet. He can feel the _sun_.

Ending the eighth cycle feels like dying, so he's glad for the ninth chant. He forgets that he's _John_ , and there's a peace inside him that's the home he's been looking for all his life. People he knows are waiting for him there. Chaya and Teer, of course, but also someone he thinks is his mother. Everything is beautiful.

He pushes himself up that one last time on sheer stupid stubborn will, up and back into his body, and he comes hard as the dildo slides free of his body. Trying to get away, he falls on his side, his face pressing into the dirt and wetness that he thinks ( _hopes_ ) is his own come. He's shaking; he blindfold is wet and cold; he can feel every cell in his body aging and weakening.

"Um," the acolyte says, John gets the feeling not for the first time. "You need to be repurified."

"Sure," John says, but it's just a raw noise through the fabric. He gets his knees under him and crawls in the direction of the acolyte's voice like a baby.

He gets his sight and voice and hands back, but he's too fucked up to wash himself. The acolyte does that, making a point of telling John it doesn't matter that he had an orgasm. John's clothes are all there, in a neat pile and looking freshly ironed.

"It doesn't reflect on you," the acolyte says, helping John into his t-shirt.

"Okay," John says.

"You were glowing," the acolyte says, sounding apologetic, as if mentioning it might offend John. "I mean. . . ."

"That happens." John shrugs, pulling his trousers up. "Don't tell anyone, all right?" He can just imagine the humiliation of being mocked by McKay for nearly ass-fucking himself into Ascension.

"You should come back," the acolyte says, kneeling at John's feet to put his boots on and tie them with more care than John ever spares for footwear. "To learn more about the holiness. You and I. . . we're married to the same power, even if for different reasons."

"When the war's over," John says, and slides his sunglasses on as the acolyte stands.

The acolyte puts one palm on each of John's cheeks and kisses both corners of his mouth, looking older and sadder and heartbroken on John's behalf. "The war will never end, John Sheppard."

John doesn't have anything to say to that, so he just walks back out, to where his team and his weapons are waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Patrick Wolf's "Bluebells":
>
>> And I'm going nowhere fast  
> A darker day has hold at last  
> Deep in this dream I let the compass keep spinning
>> 
>> And your love has come too late


End file.
